


Marigold

by myrtlewilson



Series: Fragile Things [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Infection, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Major Character Injury, Semi-Graphic Description of Wounds, two idiots who think the other is too good for them so they don't act on BLATANTLY OBVIOUS feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23652727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrtlewilson/pseuds/myrtlewilson
Summary: In the aftermath of being shot by bandits, despite all their best efforts, Jaskier's wounds become infected.(Alternatively: Jaskier knows three things:he's in love with Geralt, it'll never happen, and now he might take that feeling to his premature grave.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Fragile Things [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595119
Comments: 35
Kudos: 474





	Marigold

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Yes! This is not dead! I am still planning on continuing the Jaskier!Whump/two idiots who think the other is too good for them series and as a condolence for being so long between installments, have a two-parter -- and, as promised, from Jaskier's point of view.

Unsurprisingly, finding a healer in the middle of bumfuck nowhere was easier said than done. 

Surprisingly, however, there were a number of ways to keep a wound from going septic known, just so long as the person with the wound is willing to be poked and prodded every few hours. 

“Ow! Bastard.” Jaskier recoiled as Geralt thumbed at the still oozing wound with a thumb slathered in a healing poultice. “Not sure if anyone’s ever told you this, but your bedside manner is _severely_ lacking.”

With the witcher’s familiarity in alchemy and apothecary, it wasn’t earth-shattering he knew how to make a healing salve from scratch. What is, however, was the demanding and regimental way that nearly every hour on the hour Geralt insisted on rubbing the wound down with an earthy smelling goo that stung like nettles when pressed to the raw and throbbing skin.

“Sit still. The more you move, the less I get it on and in the wound,” Geralt huffed, “which makes you more likely to get an infection.”

Jaskier caught the man rolling his eyes but decided not to make mention of it. Last thing he needed was the witcher feeling even more guilty for what had happened the other night.

And the other night… _gods above_ , the other night. How could he have embarrassed himself so? Throwing himself at Geralt like a blushing maiden: asking the man to lay with him, to _hold_ him, to _guilt_ him into doing so, sweet deities beyond, it was shameless. Shameless! Even now, Jaskier’s face burned at the thought of what he had done.

Nearly two decades of keeping things _neatly_ under wraps and for what? To take advantage of Geralt’s kindness? It was a sin! A sin! Plain as the nose on his face; positively sinful of Jaskier to seize onto the witcher’s good naturedness and run away with it.

After all the work he did to build their friendship! Embarrassing! Fool!

Jaskier was pulled from his thoughts by a hand on his forehead. Geralt had, at some point, stopped applying the salve and had begun to take the bard’s temperature. It was the very same one he’d almost held while riding Roach.

“Wh-Whaaa—,” Jaskier started, ever so eloquently, before Geralt cut him off.

“You were red.” He said. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t getting hot.”

The bard puffed up and fought against the urge to lean into Geralt’s palm like a well pet cat. 

“Of course I’m hot! It’s midday and we’re standing stock still, sunning. In multiple layers. Anyone would be hot.” 

It didn’t help that he was shirtless, sitting on a stump in the middle of nowhere, letting a man ripped right out of every fantasy he’d had since he was fourteen poke and prod at him as he saw fit. Then again, life seldom happened as one wanted it, Jaskier supposed.

And, it’s not like Geralt needed to know anyways. All the better that he didn’t, really — quite fine keeping him in the dark! 

“It’s not exactly summer,” said the witcher, capping the salve. “Forgive me for being cautious.”

“Well, I mean, I appreciate that, I do — and thank you. Despite what I said about your bedside manner, you are quite the—,” Jaskier lost the rest of his sentence in a mouthful of strip cloth so _rudely_ thrown at his head. 

He pulled it from where it had half caught on his shoulder and wiped his mouth. 

_“Excuse_ me. I was _talking,_ and—,” he smacked his lips once, twice, then spit, “oh gods, I do believe there was some horse hair stuck to that. Revolting.”

Geralt, ever the gentleman, had chosen halfway through Jaskier’s sentence to be the _perfect_ time to throw the cloth he’d been using to dab away the blood and salve right at the bard’s face. A little bit of the medicine mix had even gotten into his mouth, which now made the back of his throat taste faintly of... Was that bergamont? 

Where the hell had he even _found_ bergamont? Jaskier spit again.

“Now I fear my mouth will forever taste like,” he pulled a face, _“horse’s_ _ass.”_

“Well,” Geralt sighed. Was he putting on dramatics? “You already do verbally spew enough shit — may as well complete the look.”

Bastard!

Jaskier gawked. _“You!”_

A grin split the witcher’s face. Some said Geralt looked positively ghoulish when he smiled, but those people weren’t Jaskier, who basked in it like a dying plant drinking the first summer’s rain.

“Me?” Geralt raised a sliver brow. “What of it?”

“Brute. Knave. Defamer.” The bard rose on shaking legs, having gone tingly from sitting on the fallen tree for so long. _“Rapscallion.”_

“That last word you just made up.” The witcher turned away before Jaskier could rebut, returning the salve to Roach’s saddlebags. He could have at least _pretended_ to be hurt at the adjectives so _rightly_ being thrown his way. Honestly. The _audacity_ of it all.

“Did _not.”_

“You sound like a child.”

“No, seriously. It’s actually very important to me that you know rapscallion is an actual word.”

“Do you ever hear yourself? You whine like a babe.”

“I was _shot,_ Geralt, and through no fault of my own. I believe I’ve earned a _little bit_ of uninterrupted whining and self-pity, don’t you think?”

Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say, even with joking in his tone, because from ten paces away a slumping of the witcher’s shoulders — which wasn’t there seconds ago — became pronounced.

 _Curse me and my fat mouth,_ thought Jaskier. Then another thought came to him: It was the fact that a chastised Geralt reminded him very much of a scolded dog, tail tucked between its legs.

To keep himself from giggling, and making the situation worse, he dug his nails into the fat of his underarm and pinched hard. He must have made some noise, though, for the witcher rounded on him with concerned eyes.

“Nothing!” Jaskier held up his hands. “Just cold.”

Geralt’s frown became more pronounced. “A moment ago you said you were h—,”

“Have you seen my chemise?”

He made his way over to Geralt, clapping him once on the shoulder in support. Like a friend. It was a completely _normal_ amount of touching for two friends.

Not that Jaskier had many of those before Geralt — male friends, specifically — but he’d seen other men at the academy touch each other like this, so if it was good enough for them… But those were also human men, and mostly noble human men at that. Men who had grown up being taught that touch and tactileness was as much a part of negotiations and relationship forging as being taught to wield a sword and parse through treaties.

Perhaps it wasn’t the same at the wolf school. Or, perhaps it wasn’t the same for Geralt.

“You _do_ know the other night was _not_ your fault, right? We went over this.”

The witcher pursed his lips. Instead of giving Jaskier an answer, he continued to rustle through the bag as if preoccupied with something that demanded his absolute, 100 percent attention.

Even with all his years of training, both in and out of the classroom, in the arts of reading and bedding and befuddling people: Geralt remained an enigma. Years later and he was still no closer to finding out if the man simply tolerated him or truly held his companionship dear.

Not that it completely mattered. Even if Geralt were to return his affections — and really, considering Jaskier, why would he? — then... then what? Would anything change? Should anything?

Jaskier stopped himself from sighing, instead taking the cream-colored clothing from where he’d left it draped over Roach’s saddle and donning it without complaint. It took a minute for him to raise his arm high enough, despite the pain, to loop both arms through the chemise.

“Are you sure you’re... alright?” Geralt asked.

“Hm?”

“You,” he could see the witcher search for the right words, before landing on: “You went away.”

The bard smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Such a sweet man, his witcher. 

No. Not his, but as close as one could get.

“But how could I have gone away, my dear Geralt, when — as always — I am right here by your side? Now.” Jaskier clapped his hands then rubbed them together. It was actually quite cold out, now that Geralt had moved away from him. “Let’s get moving, shall we?”

* * *

Luck was on their side that day, having eventually stumbled across a little hamlet not too far outside Dorian that both possessed at least one sensible person and a healer.

Lucky was doubly on their side that day, for that woman was one in the same: Willing to treat Jaskier and not make much of a fuss about Geralt’s… _Geralty-ness,_ as it were. Well, not willing to make a fuss like the way the _entire fucking town_ did when the two of them so much as tip-toed into its boundary lines.

 _You’d’ve thought we killed someone,_ Jaskier thought when immediately flanked by guards at the city’s entrance and shaken down for their story, _not asked for medical assistance._

But still, they were lucky. 

He could still be bleeding out.

Worse yet, he could still be forced to apply that nettle-like salve every hour, having Geralt poke and prod at him like an animal toying with its prey.

Lucky. They _were_ lucky.

It was what Jaskier told himself as the needle entered his skin again, tying up the entry of the wound as he desperately tried not to curse. They were _lucky_ they found this woman. They were _lucky_ someone was skilled enough to sew close his wound and keep him from infection.

 _The pain is no worse than a dog bite_ , Jaskier lied to himself, _not even half as bad as the djinn_.Well, maybe the second half of that was true. 

He only partly remembered the encounter.And none of that, nor this arrow wound, was Marta’s fault after all — so she didn’t deserve to hear such ruddy language. Especially not when she was the only one in this splendid— 

Oh, gods who was he fucking kidding, this was a horrible _hovel_ in which _one person_ had taken pity on the bard, though not his witcher companion. This was _incredibly_ painful and he would rather _never_ be allowed to play his lute again than to be forced to sit through a stitching twice.

Ok _maybe_ that second part was a lie but still. Horrid.

Worse yet, he had been made to sit through it without Geralt.

 _Geralt_.

As a compromise — _loathe_ Jaskier called it that — for getting treated, the village alderman had demanded Geralt not be allowed past the village lines. Instead, he was made to wait just past the ramshackle gates which kept the not-so-fucking-good people of ... well, wherever the shit this was precisely _in_ and the monsters _out_. 

Out with where Geralt was. 

Jaskier found himself not liking neither the sound nor the thought of that. For all that he had done and could do for Geralt’s reputation, it always seemed like backwater places such as these were the last to get the message. A shame, really, since places like these were always where they could count on a steady flow of contract work.

The needle pressed through a particularly tender part of shoulder meat and Jaskier yelped. Marta stilled him with a hand.

“No need to be a child,” she murmured, though at least looked apologetic. “Just a few more passes, and you’ll be on your way.”

Jaskier had promised to include her in a song once she’d finished. Instead, she’d asked for coin.

He could understand. Coin put food in the belly, and between Marta, her stone-faced husband who’d barely aquessed to their pleas for aid in the first place, and a young child — well, ballads provided a sense of fun and wonder, but were woefully inadequate when it came to feeling full.

From the corner, said husband watched Marta work, lips downturned and distaste clearly known.

He leaned forward to rest his forearms on his knees. “So what’s a bard like you traveling with the likes of a witcher? Got a death wish?”

“More like a taste for adventure,” Jaskier said, wanting to leave it at that. Because if a village and its people didn’t even tolerate the presence of a witcher within its limits, then _spirits_ only knew how it felt about a man in love with one.

But it was true.

From the moment he’d laid eyes on Geralt, Jaskier had felt a pull. First he had written it off as a teenager in lust with the idea of attention and fame, rather than the man before him. But now, at the ripe age of thirty-six, he realized it was anything but. 

The lust, the _love,_ was unlike what he felt for the birds or the sea or the cut of a handsome man’s jaw. Those were loves born from appreciation of what the Continent and its Creators could make.

Love for Geralt, though — it was fervent; like the worshiper of an old god ready to devote their life, and even their death, to the cause. Jaskier would just as soon tail Geralt to the ends of the earth, and then beyond, just to say that he did as quickly as he would take a killing blow for the witcher. 

Even with the knowledge it would never be reciprocated, still Jaskier would. He would, despite the odds: Because at the end of a day, while Geralt was a witcher, Jaskier was just a human.

Why would someone so beneath him in nearly every way be deserving of love back? Surely, the fox could love the warmth of the sun and the cool of the moon, but to think the celestial bodies would come down from the heavens to kiss its head would be foolish. The sun would keep with its kind — the immortal, the resplendent — and the fox would one day die and return to the earth as nature intended.

And while it could be a rather sad affair — the lover in love with the one who’d never feel the same — from heartbreak came poetry. And ever the wellspring of inspiration was Geralt of Rivia. He’d drink from the waters of creativity, selfishly, as long as his muse would let him — or until his legs gave out.

While there was no telling which would happen first, Jaskier’s bets were on Geralt’s patience. Nevertheless, he’d take it. He’d take it with pride. 

Anything, even crumbs he told himself, was better than nothing.

“So,” Marta’s husband’s voice cut through Jaskier’s thoughts, “do witchers _really_ need the blood of a human to stay alive? That’s what my cousin in Posada told me. Told me they’re like a breed of vampire. Is that why he keeps you round?”

Jaskier recoiled at the question, which caused Marta’s hand to slip and stab at an unmarred part of his arm. _Previously_ unmarred. He yelped at the pain but offered no response to the husband.

“Gregor!” Marta snapped. “I’ll not have you bothering this man while he’s injured.”

“I’m sure the Butcher’s put him through worse. Say, did he do this to you? Shoot you for sport? Wouldn’t be surprised if he did, the bastard — ,”

Jaskier blew a breath sharply out his nose, suddenly finding himself quite hot. “He did nothing of the sort, I’ll have you know. In fact, he saved me from bandits looking to raid us the other night. He even bandaged my wounds and brought me here, sir. So, if you’d be so kind, I’d have you not talk about my traveling companion that way.”

The cabin fell quiet again as Marta finished the entry wound on his back and moved to the front. She set to work and was almost halfway done when Gregor spoke again.

“So if he don’t feed from you, and he don’t use you for sport, what use does a witcher have for the likes of a bard, then?” 

_Wouldn’t I like to know_ , Jaskier thought before dismissing the notion entirely. Rather, he replied. “It’s a mutually beneficial relationship. He keeps me... _relatively_ in one piece, and I keep his pockets full of coin.”

“Don’t he kill monsters though? That makes coin. So what’s the point of keeping a bard around— ,”

“Gregor…,”

“What? Marta, I’m just asking! What’s the point of keeping you around if he don’t eat you, you don’t make money and you can’t fight?” Gregor shrugged. “Seems like a waste of resources, that is.”

“Well— ,”

Gregor had a bit of a point. A horrid one which insulted the bard at his core, but a point nevertheless. 

The man stared hard at Jaskier like he actually expected the bard to answer, so, with airs, he did: “You see, sometimes places don’t always need monster disposal, so,” he gestured to himself with a flourish, “I work my own magic. Keeps a roof over our head and bellies full — just as easily as lopping the head off a fiend does, I might add. So, it’s like I said: Mutually beneficial.”

Still, it didn’t stop Gregor’s words from knocking about his head as Marta finished mending his shoulder. 

_What’s the point of keeping you around_? 

Jaskier wished he had the courage to ask as he let the woman continue her work in silence. 

* * *

Marta’s handiwork lost them a fistful of coins, but gained Jaskier the peace of mind that he wouldn’t be leaking out his shoulder anymore than he already had on their way to Vizima. Not that he couldn’t afford to — he’d packed a bevvy of chemises, since they were light enough. With a good bath and a quick trip to the tailors, he’d be able to hobnob with the royals of the city as per usual and charm their way back to a full purse.

He stopped himself from itching at the bandages Geralt had covered it with once Jaskier had found him again, skulking in the woods and demanding to give a onceover to the peasant patch-job. 

Once he’d deemed it somewhat satisfactory (“I want to get this looked at again, once we reach the city,” was the exact wording he’d used, not even so much as a good job to the woman’s work.) they’d set off.

“Why are we headed to the city for, anyways? A contract?”

Though the sun shone unobstructed by clouds, the air still bit at their noses, tasting like the oncoming winter chill. Jaskier felt fortunate that the snow hadn’t started falling for the season, as the shoes he’d packed for their foray around the fields of Garramone were much more suited for non-winter terrains.

Specifically, the terrains of a great hall or a classroom, but Jaskier couldn’t afford to be picky. In this case, almost quite literally. He pulled his travel cloak closer to his body while trying not to upset the injury. He’d been freezing since they’d left the village.

Geralt glanced at him from atop Roach. “No contract — gonna pay Triss a visit.”

“Ah, Ms. Merigold? Whatever does she need our talents for?”

“Not yours,” Geralt’s lips folded into a smirk, “mine.” 

He reached down to jostle the now decaying griffin head, which was tied tight to a saddlebag and smelled something fierce. It had gotten so bad, the bard had asked Geralt to keep it in a burlap sack to both hide the stench and the look of its decaying state. 

But the sack only came after Jaskier, one morning, had violently gotten ill when he’d noticed the bird-beast no longer had eyes. The sight of its empty sockets were just too much to bear. 

Jaskier jumped when he noticed how close he stood near the bag, and made a point to move to the other side of Roach, while Geralt explained the enchantress needed the beast’s skull for some spellwork that — quite frankly — was above either of their pay grades in terms of understanding. Apparently, Geralt hadn’t asked for the specifics. And if it involved rotting monster heads, the bard didn’t think he wanted to know the answer.

If Geralt blindly trusted Ms. Merigold’s intentions then Jaskier could too, he supposed.

“Can’t wait to be rid of it,” said the bard, “though I fear it will stay in my nightmares for awhile.”

“You’re the one who wanted to come see me kill it in the first place.”

“Yes, kill it, not watch the inevitable flow of time slowly dissolve the monster into mush, reminding us that one day, we too can be the griffin, and death will come for us all,” he sighed. “A man can only stand to be reminded of his own mortality to a point, Geralt. Everything after that is just... _eugh_.”

The witcher shook his head. “Only you would turn a dead griffin into poetry.”

“Everything is poetry, my dear,” he gestured toward the trees, then the ground and the sky, “to consider it anything but is an affront to the gods.”

“And you consider yourself a holy person, do you?”

“Well,” Jaskier lips curled into a smirk of his own, “that depends on the altar I’m worshiping at.”

“Incorrigible,” grumbled Geralt, as a look crossed his face that Jaskier couldn’t quite decipher. 

Even after all this time, there were still moods which overtook his traveling companion that Jaskier couldn’t quantify nor qualify.

There would be times when he’d catch the ghost of a smile, one genuine and true, painted on the witcher’s face — but only if Jaskier caught it out of the corner of his eye, when Geralt thought he wasn’t looking. The bard was never sure if it was aimed at him specifically, but whenever he’d try to get a full look, it would disappear like Jaskier had imagined it.

Sometimes, like this morning, the witcher would openly mock him like they were close friends. He’d acquess to Jaskier’s goading regarding, admittedly, stupid things: like seeing if Geralt could shoot an apple off a tree from 100 paces with a crossbow or if he could use Aard to simply _blow_ the fish out of the water, rather than have to catch them on a rod.

But other times, looks of terrible anger would storm across Geralt’s face, too. These were fewer and further between than the soft looks, but always when Jaskier laughed too loud or stood too close to a waiting man or maiden. At first, he’d thought Geralt was annoyed by the antics — peacocking, was what he called it when Jaskier tried to woo a bed mate for the night — but lately... 

Well, lately he wasn’t sure. 

Because the anger had, at some point, turned to something that almost looked like a cousin to disappointment. And the gruff dismissals — usually telling Jaskier that he’d be locking the bard out of the room, should he bring a companion back — had formed into disappearing altogether. Were they in an inn for the night and Jaskier found himself chatting someone up, even about innocuous things altogether, he’d turn to find Geralt missing.

 _What’s the point of keeping you around_? 

Jaskier shook his head, as if he could loose the rattling words from his head. 

If Geralt meant to get rid of him, he would have. And yet, whenever they’d parted, they’d meet up again in a year’s time or less — and sometimes they’d stick together for years at a time. 

So, if he wasn’t wanted, it wouldn’t keep happening. Plain as that. 

Right?

The man could rend a ghoul in half in one fell swoop; he could snap Roach to a speedy gallop and not say where he was going — maim or misdirect, Geralt had a number of viable options to get rid of Jaskier. 

Sure, the man might not want him romantically — and that was fine, Jaskier assured himself, just fine — but it didn’t mean Geralt couldn’t want him as a friend: even if getting him to admit so (while sober, at least) was like pulling teeth. The fact the witcher hadn’t left him said more than any village bum’s misguided comments could. 

Yet, they still struck a nerve, even when Jaskier knew they shouldn’t have.

 _Oh, to be a feelingless witcher, un-stricken by the anxieties of simple men_ , thought the bard, though he knew the rumors weren’t true; knew that Geralt could feel, and perhaps felt deeper than most humans did, but compressed those feelings to hone his fighting senses.

Jaskier looked to the witcher then, who seemed preoccupied with trying to pull a beetle from Roach’s mane and not crush it in the process. When he succeeded, Geralt fluttered his fingers so that the agitated bug would take flight, sighing softly when it did.

 _Gentle giant_.

The alliteration there... he could be on to something. Except, what the fuck rhymed with _giant?_

Compliant? As if.

Jaskier began to hum a tune — nothing in particular, just playing with the notes — and tapped his right middle finger and thumb together in an attempt to sound out the syllables. If it wasn’t for the tenderness still in his shoulder, he’d have already unslung his lute to try a few chords against what was playing in his mind.

Instead, he settled for mouthing out notes, a rhythmic _bap-ba-ba_. Waltz-step, perhaps? No, no that didn’t feel right at all. Setting it in four-four made much more sense, and with that key signature he could— 

“Composing your next ballad?”

Jaskier pursed his lips, trying not to lose the melody. “I’m not sure.”

Geralt hummed. Sometimes, that would be it — a little inquisitive push from the witcher which made Jaskier feel like the man truly _was_ interested in what the bard had to offer: as a friend, as an asset, as a compatriot. But then, that’s all it would be. One inquisitive little push. A gust of wind on an otherwise calm day. Enough to excite the bard, then dash those hopes just as fast.

Jaskier had always been easily excited as a child. It was hard not to fall into the same trap as a grown man. Besides — he was _far_ too old to be fancying oneself as the object of affection for someone as heroic and transcendent as Geralt of Rivia.

No, that honor would more than likely fall to someone equally as... otherworldly. Someone more like Yennefer, though it pained him to admit. And while he still hadn’t completely forgiven the witch for nearly _vasectomizing_ him, he would forgive her for clearly stealing Geralt’s heart away from him, as it was no fault of hers; it never was really his in the first place, Jaskier figured.

That’s just how these things worked. The hero of the ballad got his fair maiden and the friend got an honorable mention. Normal, human, unspecial _Jaskier_ would just have to make do with the hand given to him — whatever that entailed.

 _Scraps_.

Not for the first time, Jaskier questioned if his lack of self-preservation, of shame, was a blessing or a curse. Still, it was better than being trapped back at home, forced to rot away in the halls of Lettenhove and be groomed for— 

“How do you know?”

It took Jaskier a moment to realize now was one of the rare times Geralt continued to push. 

“Excuse me?”

“How do you know when you’re going to write a ballad instead of a poem? Or a story instead of a…,”

“Dancing tune?”

“Sure.”

“Well…,” and Jaskier paused because he realized in that moment he truly didn’t have an answer. “I’m not too sure, actually. It depends on what the melody feels like, what my subject is, and a dash of how I’m feeling, I suppose. A happy thought begets happy tunes, and all that.”

It wasn’t too far off the mark. His gaze flitted to the road, careful not to trip over the pockmarks in the dirt. More than once, his thoughts had gotten the better of him and he’d nearly ended up fast first on the ground; the last thing he needed was to add a twisted ankle to the ongoing list of injuries to his person.

“What do you think the tune will be now?”

The question took Jaskier aback. He looked up to see what Geralt was getting at, but the witcher’s eyes were fixed firmly ahead.

“The song you were humming. What do you think it’ll be?”

“Don’t know yet,” he admitted. “What has you so interested? You’ve never really cared about my music or my process before. In fact, I very much remember you telling me my singing was like a pie _sans filling.”_

This time Geralt didn’t respond. Instead he shrugged and left it at that.

Nevertheless, Jaskier continued: “But! If you must know... I’ve been working on quite the little ditty about longing, heartache, and lust. Very sentimental. Almost melancholic — not to be confused with bucolic, mind you. 

“Something to really... tug on the heart strings, maybe. Which is unfortunate because, while I am fond of how it’s shaping up, I'm not actually sure it will be popular.” He sighed. 

Despite the wind on his face, he’d suddenly found himself quite hot again so he undid his cloak, letting it hang open off his shoulders. 

“Hazard of the job, though; not that I expect you to completely understand. Most of the time, art isn’t appreciated until long after the _artiste_ is dead, unfortunately.”

The witcher made a face, which to anyone else but Jaskier, might have looked as though the man might sneeze. Yet, the bard knew that face: It was Geralt’s ‘something you said just bothered me, but I won’t tell you why’ face; one Jaskier saw quite often.

 _Alas,_ thought the bard, though he left it at that. If he spent all his time trying to uncover what it was he did to make Geralt upset every time he managed to do so, he’d be an old man by the time he’d figure it out — and one who accomplished nothing, at that! What a sad thought it was.

_What use does a witcher have for the likes of a bard?_

Jaskier tried not to dwell on it, hiking his lute up to ease the pressure on his shoulder as they made their way to Vizima. He always did have the habit of overthinking things, his mother said. 

Or was it not thinking through things enough?

Either way, Jaskier supposed. One of those things was true enough.

He found himself cold again and refastened his cloak.

* * *

“How far are we from Vizima anyhow?”

Night had found the two of them camped close — but now too close, out of fear of drowners — to the Ismena River, where they had dug a small pit for a fire and roasted two rather large river rats, patted down with dried herb. 

It was another days' ride at most before they hit Lake Vizima, if Jaskier remembered his geography correctly. Maybe another one on foot either around, or across the lake, depending on the conditions. 

Which was good, considering his shoulder has started to ache even worse than before over the course of the day. He chalked it up to the natural healing process of things and tugged at the neck of his chemise to air his chest, finding it strangely hot for a September night. 

“Not very,” said Geralt. “Close.”

The witcher had kept mostly to himself after asking Jaskier about his latest writing endeavor which the bard took to mean things were back to normal between the two of them.

Well. As normal as they ever were.

He couldn’t quite fault Geralt for taking more of an interest in him as of late; between the near drowning more than a week ago outside Gors Velen and the near robbery naught but two days ago in the stretch between Vallweir and Anchor there was enough reason to go around as to why he might be fearful for Jaskier’s safety.

But the intense scrutiny during that time had been... strange, to say the least. 

Maybe, at last, they could go back to normal: Geralt pointedly ignoring him outside the offhanded social interaction and Jaskier trying his best (and, perhaps, failing) to do the same with his romantic feelings.

“Well, let's hope for no bandits tonight at the very least, eh?” He snatched his cloak from the ground and wrapped himself in it as a gust of wind sent a shiver through him. 

Geralt grunted in the way he did when annoyed. Jaskier tried to catch the witcher’s eye from across the fire, but it was clear the man was putting all his attention to the small whetstone he kept with them for sword sharpening. Tonight, he was paying special attention to the steel one rather than the silver.

Jaskier tried not to read too much into that.

“It was a joke,” he added, “no need to be so serious. I doubt the gods hate us so much to have us attacked twice in such a close time.”

That statement didn’t even receive so much as a huff. The conversation, clearly, was over for tonight. And that was fine and well with Jaskier, who found that listening in to the white noise of the river’s soft rush was almost enough to make him focus on something else outside of the throbbing ache radiating from his arm.

 _With the wound clean and sewn, there’s nothing to worry about,_ he told himself. Rising from his position by the fire, he moved to retrieve his bedroll from Roach. She had been left to loosely roam around the grassy knoll they’d chosen to stop at. 

When he got close, she snuffled and bumped Jaskier with her snout as he raised a hand to pet her. Unfortunately, it was right in the armpit of his injured arm, which unintentionally caused him to cry out and drop like a bag of grain.

“Damn it!”

_“Jaskier!?”_

Through gritted teeth, the bard called back: “Nothing! Just— _fuck!”_

Geralt was on him before he could finish his thought. His firm grip to Jaskier’s bicep kept the bard upright as he staggered to his feet. He leaned into the touch, trying to will the tears not to crest from equal parts pain and anger.

“You need to sit down,” said the witcher, steering Jaskier back toward the fire.

“I was sitting down. In fact, I was laying, if you didn’t see. Still hurt.”

The joke was bad, even by Jaskier’s standards. Geralt told him to shut up. Easier said than done when one was _completely fucking on fire with pain, holy shit, how could a little bump hurt that badly?_ He fought the urge to curl into himself like a pill bug.

The witcher sat them both on his bedding and commanded Jaskier to remove his cloak and shirt so that he could make sure the stitching was still intact. Were he in better spirits, Jaskier might have made a joke. Instead, he grit his teeth and set toward trying to pull it off one handed and not shiver from the cold.

_“Fuck.”_

Jaskier didn’t even need to rely on all his years of translating Geralt-speak to know that tone wasn’t good. He turned to look at the injury, then found his head pushed sharply up with a calloused hand.

“Don’t look,” said Geralt, who had begun peeling back the wrap. “I mean it. I’m going to unwrap your bandages but… Just. Don’t look, alright?”

It didn’t matter. He had already seen the yellow-brown seepage which stained the bandages out the corner of his eye; colors which lacked positive connotations when it came to the world of wounds. There was little chance the actual stitches were going to look any better.

The only thing Jaskier could do was laugh at the absurdity of it. And when the stitches were exposed to the cool night air, he did. 

_Just my luck!_

"Stop it.” Geralt sounded like he was the one in pain. “We can fix this. I can—,”

“Geralt. It's infected.”

He looked down, and this time the witcher didn’t stop him. Sure enough, the ragged wound was a deep red, bordering on purple and Jaskier could feel the heat radiating from it without even having to move his head. A few of the stitches had broken from the force of Roach’s nudge and from between the bits of twine, pus peeked, waiting at the crest of his broken skin to weep out.

Despite reading about how fast infection could spread, the speed of which the wound went from fine to _fucked_ somewhat shocked him. Though, he figured, it was natural to be a little scared about the reality of infection if you were the one infected.

The worst thing he’d had before this was a flu. He’d never even had the pox before.

Geralt stood. “We have to go.”

“Go? Where? It’s the middle of the night!”

The witcher hurried to his bag, still attached to Roach, and came back with fresh bandages, a rag, and a canteen of water. He kneeled down again, wet the cloth and pressed it to the stitches. Jaskier hissed.

“Geralt! Fucking _ow!”_

 _He’s panicked_ , a voice whispered in his head, as another rebuked: _He’s not panicked. He’s frustrated. Just when things start to go our way... three steps forward, two back._

At least this time, Jaskier thought, it wasn’t his fault.

Well. Not entirely.

Geralt took the cloth away, exchanging it for a dry one. Some of the pus had been sopped away with the wet rag, but in its place, blood and a watery liquid had taken its place. It leaked steadily from Jaskier’s shoulder. The whole thing felt like a rather horrible bee sting. 

That was, if the bee had a stinger the size of a spear and that spear had barbs attached and those barbs had small thorns growing out of them. 

The thought made him dizzy. He groaned through gritted teeth.

“Geralt,” Jaskier tried again, softer. He’d begun to tremble but didn’t quite know why. “Where are we going? What are we going to—,”

“Triss. She’s a healer. She’ll help you, she’ll know what to do.”

A sinking feeling settled in the bard’s gut. “That’s more than a day’s ride away.”

“Which is why,” Geralt punctuated the thought by ripping a length of the bandage with his sharp teeth, to set a base layer on the broken stitches, “we leave now. And we ride hard. We’ll make it by night tomorrow if we hurry.”

“Geralt…,”

“Roach can handle it. This terrain is easy.” The witcher set to wrapping Jaskier at a brisk pace. His handling almost hurt as much as the wound itself. “Sure, the western side is swampy, but it’s nothing like Downwarren. We’ll make it. Triss will—,”

“Geralt! Calm _down.”_

And wasn’t that a funny thing to say to a witcher, of all things — and by Jaskier, of all people. Geralt stopped as if frozen. In his grip was Jaskier’s shirt, which the bard took and slowly re-dressed himself.

Then he breathed; in deep, out even deeper. If he thought too hard about the situation they were in, Jaskier would surely panic. And if Geralt lost his head — either from genuine worry or pinched frustration — then they’d well and truly be fucked. 

He wiped away the sweat, which had begun to bead on his brow, before leaning forward and grabbing the witcher on either side of his face.

“I know this sounds strange, coming from me, but _think._ I might not be an outdoorsman like you but I do know books, and I do know a bit about medicine, so I _do_ know that something like this... there might not be enough time.”

Geralt opened his mouth to speak, so Jaskier put his palm straight over it and stopped him.

“We’ll go to Triss. We’ll ride as fast as Roach can and do as much as we’re able to fix this. But... but if something goes wrong... if something happens—,”

The witcher grabbed his wrist and pulled the hand away. It felt like the inverse of the other day, of Jaskier gripping his wrist, and of the feeling of something... _there._ Something that hadn’t been there before. Or, maybe it had, but had gone unrecognized. 

“We’ll make it,” said Geralt, yellowed eyes shining fierce in the firelight. “You’ll make it.”

He grabbed Jaskier’s cloak from the dirt and pulled it over the bard’s shoulders. Geralt made a move like he wanted to fasten it for him, but stopped, hands just shy of the skin at Jaskier’s throat. His eyes settled there like he was looking for something.

Jaskier frowned. “Geralt?”

But the spell was broken, and the witcher looked up.

“It’s nothing,” he said, standing. He held out a hand and helped Jaskier to his feet as well. “C’mon. The quicker we pack, the faster we can go.”

They tore down the campsite with less finesse than they usually did, leaving the fire pit still exposed and their prints still stamped into the dry earth. If Geralt didn’t see fit to address it, then Jaskier wouldn’t bring it up.

The cold feeling in his gut hit again as the severity of the situation began to further set in. Any courage that he had when talking Geralt off his own metaphorical ledge left him, just as quickly as it came.

 _I might die,_ Jaskier through, tying his bedroll to a saddlebag. He couldn’t feel his fingers working even though he could see them doing what he needed. It was like he was watching his body from the vantage point of a bird.

Every word he’d ever read about wounds and mortality and dying and death had suddenly come back to him and swirled about in his head like a morbid little stew.

_I could be in a grave by this time next week._

He felt himself turn to look back at what still needed to be done, only to find the entire site packed and Geralt standing beside him with yet another unreadable look on his face. 

“Are you ready?”

Jaskier opened his mouth to respond, but his throat tightened. He cleared it and tried again but still, nothing came out. Instead, he found his eyes growing hot and his nose beginning to tingle. In a moment, he knew, he’d start to cry.

_How embarrassing. What if this is how he remembers you? As a crybaby._

“Jaskier?”

A hand to his good shoulder, Geralt’s hand, had cut through his verbal block. But instead of saying he was good to go, instead of being strong and resolute like he had been, what came out was a croaked: “I don’t want to die.”

He couldn’t look the witcher in the eye. Instead his gaze fell to the wolf medallion, which seemed to glow in the half-light of the moon. The hand on the shoulder slid down to his elbow and stayed there. 

The other hand tipped his gaze back to look Geralt head on.

“You won’t,” he said firmly, “not tonight. Not soon. Do you hear me?”

Jaskier blinked back the tears. Despite the icy anxiety swimming about in his belly, he felt quite flush again. Whether it was from the pending fever or Geralt’s proximity, he couldn’t tell. Instead of leaning into the touch, he pulled away and nodded.

“Right,” said Jaskier, wiping at his eyes. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

Geralt helped him onto Roach, who seemed even more subdued than usual. Perhaps this was her own way of saying sorry as well. Not that she needed to, the silly girl. Swinging himself up behind Jaskier, Geralt settled into the saddle.

“What are you— ,”

The witcher’s arms came around Jaskier’s middle to grab for the reins. “This way you can sleep, if you can.”

“But you—,”

“Don’t need it. Can go days without it.”

“Can you even see over my head?”

Geralt snapped Roach into a cantor, which melded into a seamless gallop, and left the question unanswered. Against the noise of the wind, Jaskier yelled back: “Shouldn’t mean you have to. Not sleep, I mean.”

He could see Geralt’s face, looming over his shoulder, without even turning his head. 

“Save your voice,” the witcher murmured, voice somehow carrying over the whipping air. “We’ll be fine.”

His mouth was close enough to Jaskier’s cheek that if he turned, Geralt might have accidentally kissed him. The bard felt both cold and hot. He felt Geralt’s hand move, and a tingle bloomed in the base of his skull.

“You need to sleep.”

“Did you just _witcher_ me?” Jaskier hoped it came out as he’d intended, but the words felt slurred and his eyes felt heavy. So heavy. _“Bastard…,”_

 _Just a little nap_ , he thought. _Then we’ll be at Vizima_.

Jaskier felt the rumble of a laugh in Geralt’s chest, pressed against his back. 

“Save your strength,” the witcher said. “You can curse me all you want after we see Triss.”

Roach’s rhythmic gait lulled Jaskier further into sleep. His head lolled back, cushioned by Geralt’s shoulder guard and held still by the witcher’s thick neck. From here, he could see the stars, moving with them as they moved.

Just before dreaming, the bard had two thoughts.

One was a memory of a fairy tale his nursemaid had told him: That when souls left their bodies, they went to the stars and became one of them. He hoped that if things didn’t... work out, he’d become a star; that he’d get to keep following Geralt, if even from afar.

The other was that, so, so long ago, Geralt was telling the truth.

He did really _reek_ of onion for some inexplicable reason. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://myrtlewilson.tumblr.com/)!


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